


Blood On My Name

by Er0sennin



Category: Fallout - Fandom, Fallout 76, Fallout: Wastelanders
Genre: Addiction, Beckett is a beefcake, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Loss, POV Alternating, lots of blood, violence but not too graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27129403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Er0sennin/pseuds/Er0sennin
Summary: Andy Withers has settled nicely into her post-war routine, but a chance encounter with a former raider places her smack dab in the middle of the largest chem operation in Appalachia.People often do foolish things for love, and Andy has added 'take down a nefarious drug enterprise' to the list.
Relationships: Beckett/Female Resident (Fallout 76), Beckett/Female Vault Dweller, Mort/Female Resident (past)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. A Ghoul and a Vault Dweller Walk Into a Bar

**Author's Note:**

> A warning: Mort is a bit AU here. I have a feeling that under his pleasant 'I just want to teach new settlers how to set up a CAMP' exterior is a rifle-toting, ass-kicking force to be reckoned with. The timeline will be a little wonky too because I've taken some creative liberties, but Beckett's story will still be mostly canon.
> 
> Also, I feel like the 76 community on here isn't big, but any feedback is appreciated. Enjoy!

A solitary lantern flickered in the corner of the cell, painting the rust covered walls in hues of oranges and reds. Shadows moved and danced along cool steel and Beckett stared, unblinking, watching as silhouettes and shapes took form. He saw Frankie in those shapes, small vignettes of their shared childhoods, nights spent entertaining each other by a makeshift campfire. Nights spent thieving and barely scraping by on whatever loot they’d scored.

He stared, kept his eyes open until they stung and tears threatened to spill over, wondering what would happen to Frankie after the Blood Eagles removed Beckett’s head from his body.

Did they know where Frankie was? Did they have him?

The Blood Eagles made a point to isolate its members by severing their attachments to anything outside of the gang—outside of chems. Relatives and lovers were merely leverage, something used to break you down to nothing so they could reshape members in their image.

Fingers knotted through the dark locks of his hair and he tried to look away from the lantern, tried to force his lids to close and grant his eyes the reprieve they were begging for. But he couldn’t.

Images of Frankie being dragged away from Foundation bombarded his mind; his impossibly red hair matted with blood and bone, his blue eyes gazing up to an empty sky and questioning why his big brother wasn’t there to help him.

It was enough to make Beckett’s body recoil and he gasped, suddenly forgetting how to breathe, something hot and oppressive roiling in his gut. Bile crept up the back of his throat, tongue tightening, mouth flooding with thick, watery saliva.

He was going to die. He was going to die and he’d never see Frankie again.

His stomach lurched. It twisted and burned as he retched, hands flying to his face, futile in his attempts to stop it. Vomit seeped from his mouth and seared the lining of his nose and he gasped, desperate for oxygen, desperate for it to be over.

“Ah, fuck. Beckett,” a guttural voice appeared at his flank, “that’s disgusting.”

Hazel eyes, glossy and unfocused, tore away from the lantern and to the man who said his name. Through the mesh wire of the cell window he spied the head honcho of this particular camp. He loomed over Beckett’s crumpled form, a good seven feet tall in his raider power armor, his head and face coated in thick layers of grime. 

“We oughta make you clean that up with your bare hands.”

“Rig,” Beckett rasped out, his throat raw and scratchy. “If you wanted to see me bend over, all you had to do was ask.”

The raider spat at his feet. “You and that smart mouth. Never knew when to shut the fuck up. Maybe if you’d just kept your head down and did what we asked, you’d be a free man.”

“Free. That’s rich.”

“Can it.” A giant metallic finger rattled the cell door. Rig gestured over his shoulder with a wave. “Fix, get on over here and unlock the gate. Time to start the show.”

Beckett couldn’t help the thrum of anxiety that licked down his spine.

Fix slunk out from behind Rig and fumbled with the keys, her eyes red and swollen, wobbling back and forth as if she’d drop dead any moment. Everything around him seemed to fade as the key slid into the lock.

Something short circuited in his brain and he struggled to process what was happening. It was easy to contemplate one’s death, but to actually be there, teetering over the precipice of this life and nothingness, well… that was something else entirely. 

There was still that fraying thread of hope tucked far away, hidden in some distant alcove of his mind, mingling with denial.

A cold sweat broke out across his skin and he swallowed with a grimace, hating the lump that formed in his throat. Hating the way his hands trembled as he stood. Hating the way his knees buckled and he had to catch himself against the wall.

He was a god damn coward. 

Beckett wanted to ask if it’d be relatively quick, if dying would hurt, but he knew better. They were going to torture him for as long as his body could withstand, making sure he suffered as much as physically possible before allowing him to die. Another thrum of anxiety shot through him.

How many had died by his own hands? How many of them trembled and cried and begged for mercy, pissing themselves as he pressed the barrel of his shotgun to their heads? 

Beckett’s gaze traveled to his palms, forever stained with innocent lives, and wondered if this was the end he deserved. Maybe Frankie would be better off without him. 

And still… he didn’t want to go. Not yet. Not now.

Then, a noise.

His captors froze. 

The sound of a metal clanging against metal could be heard, reverberating off the walls of his cell, and he was pulled violently from his reverie. There was thudding above him, heavy and determined, and he looked upward. Footsteps. The din of gunfire. Somewhere in the distance, his ears picked up on the droning of the camp alarm.

Almost instantaneously, Rig and Fix were running back out the door with their weapons pulled.

Beckett wiped his slick palms against the faded denim of his jeans and moved toward the cell door. From his position, he could see the key ring still dangling from the lock. 

That flicker of hope was stronger now, blooming white and all-consuming, and he lightly placed trembling fingers against the handle. If Fix had turned it just enough, he might be able to force the door open with some encouragement.

He pushed. Nothing. With a curse he latched onto the handle and pushed harder, boots sliding against the linoleum as he tried to maintain traction. Still wouldn’t budge. A growl escaped his chest as he reared back and rammed his shoulder into the thick steel, trying to ignore the pain that blossomed down his arm.

Just as he raised his boot, summoning every last ounce of energy to his limbs to deliver a kick, the main entrance squealed open. His movements came to a sputtering halt and he scrambled to the far wall. He expected to see Rig’s bald head and Fix fumbling after him, but a stranger appeared under the doorway instead.

It was a woman, face spattered with crimson, golden blonde hair tucked behind her ears and partially covered by a Stetson hat. Rivulets of blood dripped from her jaw and traveled down the expanse of neck, disappearing into the high collar of a black duster. Dual bandoliers were draped across her chest, obscuring the high quality combat armor beneath.

Behind her, another head appeared. It was a male ghoul, at least a good foot taller, wearing a similar hat and duster combo. An impressive combat rifle was clutched between his withered fingers and he scanned the room, his dark eyes akin to narrow pools of onyx.

The moment his scrutiny honed in on Beckett, the ghoul aimed his rifle.

The woman took her partner’s lead and pointed two revolvers in Beckett’s direction, her green eyes surprisingly piercing in the low light. He couldn’t help but gape at her, this petite vision covered in gore and viscera.

“Are you Beckett?” Her voice was rough but not totally unkind.

“Maybe.” Beckett crossed his arms, grimacing as his shoulder throbbed, and tried to sound as aloof as possible. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Jesus because today I’m your lord and savior.” There was a quick beat of intense silence before she cracked an impish grin, gesturing to the ghoul at her flank with one of her revolvers. “I’m just kidding. I’m Andy and this is Mort. We heard some raider broadcast near Lewisburg and thought we’d investigate. Sounded like some poor fool was going to be publically executed.”

“Uh… yeah, that poor fool is me.” Beckett licked at his dry lips. “You came all the way here to help me?”

“Yep!” Andy twirled the revolvers on around her index fingers once, twice, before depositing them into their individual holsters. “And I’d say it’s more like we’re here to liberate you from a tyrannical group of marauders. I think that has a better ring to it, don’t you, Mort?”

Mort kept his rifle raised and grunted in affirmation. “Looks like the keys are already in the door.”

“Just our luck.” Andy twisted the key and swung the door open. She was small but that did nothing to impede the aura of intimidation that rolled off of her in waves. “Well, come on, greaser boy. Let’s skedaddle.”

“Can your friend here stop pointing his rifle in my face?” Beckett squeezed his way out of the cell, keeping a good five feet between him and Andy.

Andy clicked her tongue and wrapped her delicate fingers around the barrel, pointing it to the floor. “Come on, Mort. Relax.”

“Why did they have you locked in here?” The ghoul queried, his voice gravelly and hoarse. A puff of air escaped the hole where his nose should be. “Seems like you did something to piss these guys off.”

Andy turned her inquisitive gaze back to Beckett and he tried not to flinch. The blood coating her cheeks had started to dry and it reminded him of war paint.

“You know, that’s not a bad question. I got so caught up in playing heroics I didn’t think twice about why he’s here in the first place.”

“I would be more than happy to elaborate on that once we put a good mile or two between us and this place.” Beckett raised his hands, a submissive gesture.

“We’ve got some time. Everyone in this godforsaken labor camp is dead, present company excluded.” Andy took a handkerchief from the pocket of her duster and wiped at her face. “So what’d you do? Kill one of their own? Refuse to pay some idiotic protection money for protection you didn’t need? Spill.”

“Oh for the love of…” Beckett’s jaw worked beneath his skin. “Alright, quick version. I used to be a part of this gang. I left. They nabbed me. They were fixing to make a lesson out of me before you two came along. How’s that?”

Andy let out a low whistle and turned to the ghoul. “Alright. That works for me, how about you?”

Mort lowered his weapon. “Acceptable.”

Andy pulled a pack from over her shoulder and opened it, fishing around inside for something. After a few beats, she withdrew a pistol and shoved it into Beckett’s chest. The pack went back over her shoulder and she gave him an encouraging nod, miming some finger guns in his direction.

“That pistol is on the house, greaser boy. Now let’s go.”

Beckett tucked the pistol into his jacket. They were moving to the entrance now and Beckett was close behind, trying to urge his adrenaline to subside.

One moment he was gearing up to be tortured and killed, and now he was following a very eccentric human and her ghoul sidekick. Beckett wasn’t one to question a good thing and this was, most decidedly, a very good thing. But why two strangers would risk their lives to save someone they didn’t know, just on a whim, was a foreign concept to him.

They must want something, right? That was the only explanation. Nobody does stuff for free.

The air was hot and thick when they stepped out into the open, a heady breeze tousling his hair and cooling the sweat at his brow. The pungent aroma of metal and gunpowder invaded his nostrils and he nearly staggered from the intensity.

Bodies of his former gang littered the wide expanse of the labor camp and he balked at the massacre before him. It was hard to believe only two people were able to sow such chaos and bloodshed.

“Is there anything you need to collect before we hightail it out of here?” The blonde asked.

“Now that you mention it, there is. When they captured me, they took a bunch of my stuff.” Beckett replied. “Did you happen to see a large backpack? It’s made of dark leather and has one broken strap.”

Andy pulled a black bandana from around her neck and secured it over her nose. “I don’t recall seeing anything like that, but we didn’t exactly do a detailed sweep of the area after we cleared it.”

“I need it back.”

“We can replace any supplies or weapons you’ve lost.” Mort said easily. “We were able to bide some time by taking out this camp, but who knows when more raiders might show up.”

“Please, it’s important.” Beckett hated the desperation in his voice. He bent down and began to untie his boot. “Look, it’s not much, but I managed to hide some caps…”

“No, Beckett. Keep your money.” Andy had him by the shoulders and hauled him up. “We’ll do it, we’ll find your bag.”

“Andrea…” Mort said sharply.

“I know you’re a minimalist, Mort. But sometimes certain items hold a lot of sentimental value to people.” Andy’s tone left no room for argument. A gloved hand idly wandered to her neck, where Beckett spied a thin necklace. “Those kind of items are irreplaceable.”

“You’re too soft sometimes.” The ghoul huffed, though he sounded more amused than annoyed. “Does this backpack have… _sentimental value_ , as Andy put it?”

“Yes.” Beckett felt that anxious thrum again, plucking somewhere deep in his chest. Well, it wasn’t totally a lie. “The stuff in there… I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t get it back.” 

“Don’t worry, Beckett. We’re here to help.” Andy’s gloved hand disappeared from the chain and found its way to his arm, where it squeezed gently. “Where do you think they’d stash it?”

“If it’s not here, then there’s a camp nearby. It’s called Sludge Works.” Beckett gestured to the north. “I heard Rig and Fix mention it a few times.”

“Very well. Let’s get to looking. This job won’t be complete until we find your stuff.” Andy flew down the staircase, skipping a step here and there. “Remember, Mort! What’s our motto?”

“Never half-ass two things, whole-ass one thing.”

“Bingo!”

Beckett followed them into the fray, wondering exactly what he’d gotten himself into.


	2. Sludge Works

“This bag better be worth it!” Andy growled over the din of gunfire.

The trail had led them to Sludge Works, only a mile from the last camp, and their attempt at retrieval was _not_ going well. Somehow, despite being smaller, this location was more densely packed.

A bullet whizzed past Beckett’s head and he cursed, wishing he’d had something more powerful than a pistol. The ghoul, Mort—he remembered-- stood for a brief moment to toss a grenade over a cement barricade before returning to Andy’s side. Beckett leaned around from where he was hiding and took aim of the projectile, feeling a bit of satisfaction as the grenade went off and severed a raider’s leg.

“Not bad, greaser boy.” Andy quipped, pulling her revolvers out to take pot shots at a particularly daunting figure in rusty power armor. “How would you like us to proceed?”

Beckett tried to hide his bewildered look. “What?”

“You were one of these guys,” she flinched as a piece of their barricade was blown away, “how do we outmaneuver them?”

“They’re hopped up on every chem known to man. The only way out is through.” He watched Mort throw another grenade with meticulous precision.

At this, a feral looking smile broke out across Andy’s face and she nodded. “Guns blazing it is! Mort, watch my six. I’m going in.”

“Andrea--” Mort began to protest, but it fell on deaf ears.

A raider had closed in on them and was mounting over the barricade, a bat with crooked nails protruding from the wood aimed high above their head. A spray of blood cascaded through the air as a bullet tore through the raider’s neck and they crumpled to the ground with a dull thud. Without looking back, Andy dove into the fray and he watched her disappear with growing anxiety.

Holy shit, this woman was insane.

He looked over to Mort. “Is she always like this?”

“Unfortunately,” he groused. His nimble fingers loaded a clip into his rifle. “Best you go on in, I’ll stick to the walls and try to pick them off from afar.”

“Uh… w-what? As in… go in there? With _this_?” He sputtered, gesturing to his dinky pistol.

“We’re here for _you_.” He quipped back. “So get your ass in there and help her.”

“Fuck.”

It wasn’t going in there that made Beckett nervous, it was the fact that he was minimally armed and had little to no protection. If a bullet or a blunt weapon to the head didn’t kill him, then he’d likely end back up in the Blood Eagle’s hands. So either way, he’d end up dead, only one way would be marginally more horrific to experience.

With one final look at Mort, he retreated from his hiding spot and took off after Andy.

As soon as he broke through the threshold, he staggered at the scene before him. Bodies were laid out left and right, and once again he was marveling at the sheer barbarity of it.

One raider was twisted in an impossibly inhuman way, his throat so shredded and torn open that Beckett was surprised his head was still attached. Another one was slightly obscured by a gas mask, but he could see through the fractured glass that their face was nearly collapsed in on itself.

A scream broke his concentration; high-pitched, throaty, and guttural.

At once, his boots hit the ground and he swallowed, feeling that prickle of anxiety return. He wasn’t used to doing this sober. Every bodily reaction was noticeable and ten times more potent. The thumping of his heart, the way his legs wobbled beneath his weight, the quick succession of his breathing. It was unbearable. 

Someone popped out from behind a wrought iron box and he leapt back, parrying an incoming swing of a particularly sharp machete. Their movements were erratic; the blade hacked and swiped at him with no real design, and he found it difficult to anticipate where it’d land next. It ended up catching him in the meat of his shoulder and he hissed. 

They lunged forward and he ducked beneath their swing, managing to wrench an arm into their gut and throw them to the ground. A shot to the head stopped their movements and he continued, shaking off the bit of blood that trickled down his hand.

Despite multiple setbacks and more raiders than he could shake a stick at, he managed to make his way to the center of the camp—no thanks to Mort. His knee throbbed and ached from a particularly hard offending blow from a golf club, and he just knew something in there had to be broken.

There was another scream and he looked up.

It was Andy.

A metallic fist was clenched into the material of her duster and she flailed helplessly, gloved hands clawing and scraping in an attempt to free herself. Beckett felt his heart leap into his throat when his gaze befell whose grip she was in. The gnarled wires and rusted steel of ill-kempt power armor were stark and imposing against the clear blue sky.

The raider holding her sneered at her struggle, his face barely discernible through his helm, and he shook Andy violently. Her head snapped back and forth with horrific force and she screeched in pain.

Even from his distance, an audible pop of something dislocating could be heard.

It was only when Beckett was half way up the shipping container, hands slipping and slick with his own blood, did he realize what he was doing.

The sound of metal ricocheting against metal could be heard and that’s when he saw Mort closing in; black eyes narrow and sizzling with thinly contained rage. Beckett wasn’t sure what good his pistol would do against such formidable armor, but he brought it up and pulled the trigger frantically nonetheless.

At the onslaught, the raider swung Andy around, pressing her tightly against his chest plating as a human shield. Beckett’s aim didn’t falter, but his hands shuddered and swayed, adrenaline pulsing through his limbs. Mort halted his firing and settled at Beckett’s flank. All they needed was a single opening.

“Beckett,” the raider jeered.

“The one and only.”

This person knew him but the face was only vaguely familiar. Most likely a low-ranking captain and an otherwise unremarkable presence. The Blood Eagles were a far-reaching and nefarious enterprise, after all.

The raider’s grip tightened on Andy, clenching cruel fingers around her neck. “If you wanted your shit back, you coulda just asked me nicely.”

“I’m really not in the mood for some witty back and forth. So if you could just let her go, we’ll be on our way.”

“Or what? What are you gonna be able to do ‘bout it?” One heavy arm gestured to their suit with a sardonic laugh.

There it was. The opening. That single shift in posture gave just enough leeway for him to be able to sneak a shot in. Both him and Mort raised their weapons but were interrupted by a flurry of movement.

It happened so fast that Beckett’s brain struggled to process it.

Andy, with one arm limp and useless, wriggled just loose enough to retrieve a small dagger at her thigh. With a single, sure movement, she wrenched her arm behind her and drove the blade through the wiring, burying it to the hilt in the underside of the raider’s jaw.

It was… breathtakingly skillful. And violent. 

A jettison of blood coated the entirety of Andy’s face and she gasped, her fingers tangled and snagged on the material of the helm. The man behind her fumbled, eyes wide and watery with surprise as he registered what just transpired. How he was even still alive, Beckett wasn’t sure. Probably chems.

The raider took one step back, two, before teetering over the edge of the hold. Andy still struggled to remove herself as the raider began to lose his balance, one heavy foot slipping against the sleek metal beneath. If she went tumbling over the edge, ensnared in two-tons of steel plating… he erased that image from his mind.

Beckett closed the gap just in time to pry her free. He clenched his fingers into the lapels of her duster, yanking her forward. The momentum was enough to cause them both to stumble back and she landed heavily on top of him with a yelp.

Behind them, the raider fell to the ground with an earth-trembling _thud_.

He let out a groan, hands idling against the small of Andy’s back. Her head was limp, buried in the crux of his neck, but he could feel her chest rise and fall with each quivering breath. At least she was alive and relatively in one piece.

Mort was there immediately, lifting her off of him. “Andrea?”

“I’m… I’m okay,” she replied, voice gruff. 

Mort crumbled to his knees and pulled her into his lap, concerned eyes roving every inch of her frame.

“Don’t bullshit me. Can you move your arm at all?”

She winced. “No. I think… it’s dislocated.”

Beckett watched them, still sprawled out against the hold and propped up on his elbows.

He took in the sight of her and suppressed a frown. Blonde hair was tangled and matted against her skin, wet with old stains and new, and a deep, puckered gash traveled across her forehead and ended at the shell of her ear. Guilt roiled and churned in his gut; so intense he felt like he was going to puke again.

She did this for _him_. A stranger. A man she’d only met a few hours ago. Not only had she spared him the indignity of a public execution, but she dove head first into an armed-to-the-teeth raider encampment just so he could get his fucking bag. And this is what it’d gotten her.

Slowly, he climbed to his feet and shambled over, careful not to agitate his knee. He stopped just short of the pair, somehow feeling like he was intruding.

“Andy…” he whispered. She didn’t look at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know--”

“Beckett,” she interrupted, “it’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty little head over me.”

He opened his mouth to speak again but was swiftly shut down.

“Go grab your bag. Afterwards, we’ll all have a nice stimpak party and get the hell out of here.” Andy tried to stand. “Mort, you’re going to have to pop this sucker back in.”

Beckett watched them for a few beats before turning around, setting about locating what they came here for.

He’d found it.

It was relatively untouched, although the blueprints he’d spent hours fleshing out were resting idly on a table next to a fucking grill, of all places. He’d scowled at the greasy finger prints and smudges before rolling it back up and tucking it away.

But all the intel was still there. Every map, every name, and every detail. It was an instantaneous weight lifted from his shoulders and, despite the cuts and bruises littering his body, he felt he could stand a little taller.

The wound in his shoulder was deep, but it could’ve been worse. The machete had torn clean through the leather of his jacket and he eyed the hole with distaste. It’d take a hefty thread and patch to get it back to looking presentable. The cotton white material of his shirt was drenched in dried, coagulated blood, and he’d groaned in discomfort as he peeled the cloth back.

He stayed there, in the makeshift trailer where he found his bag, trying to clean up the wound with a handkerchief and can of water from his bag. He still felt too awkward, too ashamed, to find the others. Maybe if they knew what was good for them, they’d leave him behind.

But Andy ultimately located him. He was leaning on a desk against the far wall, trying to extend his leg, gauging just how fucked up his knee was. 

“They got you good.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of her voice. There was a makeshift sling propping up her injured arm and some of the viscera was cleared from her face, but not all. Beckett shrugged his shoulders, forcing that familiar façade of aloofness to the surface.

“I’ve had worse.”

To his surprise, she chuckled. “If you ran with these guys, then I’m sure you have.”

“The fact that you’re still conscious after everything is… impressive,” he said easily. “How’s your hand?”

Andy lifted up said hand, which was wrapped in layers of bandages. “I’m astounded that the damn wiring didn’t take any of my fingers with it. Hurts like a bitch, but the stimpak is helping.”

Beckett just nodded, feeling that surge of guilt resurface. No words of apology, no expressions of contriteness, felt like it would be good enough. This woman nearly died and it was all his fault. The information he’d acquired was invaluable, yes, but it wasn’t worth letting someone die over.

“I see you found your bag. Everything in there undamaged and accounted for?”

“More or less,” another shrug. “Nothing a little cleaning won’t fix.”

A beat of silence ensued. Andy stepped a little further into the trailer, boots scraping along the floor, and relaxed against the adjacent wall. At this point, Beckett had lowered his gaze to his feet, too uncomfortable to keep trading pleasantries like nothing had happened.

“I’d expected you to be a bit happier.” She commented. “Especially since you said this bag of yours held a lot of sentimental value.”

Beckett glanced up. Her eyes were intense but not unkind, more curious than anything. A heavy breath escaped through his nose and he tilted his head back, resigning himself to stare at a rusted hole in the roof. It looked like a mutfruit.

“I’m grateful. I don’t think I can even find the words to express exactly _how_ grateful I am,” he frowned. “The stuff in here is very important to me, but…”

“But what?”

“You almost died.”

Andy puffed in amusement. “Beckett, I’ve almost died hundreds of times. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay to _me_. Look at your arm, your head, your hand,” he swiveled back to her, gesturing to each injury. “All of this, and for what?”

He expected her to get angry, to tell him to go fuck himself for this reaction to her kindly deed. Instead, she just slanted her head as he spoke, intently listening. There was a moment where he watched her process it all, her eyes trailing something unseen; as if searching for her words somewhere in this dilapidated trailer.

Finally, she spoke. There was a sort of sereneness to her tone, it was as if she were attempting to soothe a distraught animal.

“I did this because you asked me to.”

“But you don’t know me.” He attempted to stand. “You don’t know who I am or what I’ve done. You helped me— why? Because you were there? Because you could? Had some time to kill?”

“That’s fairly accurate, yeah.”

At this, Beckett floundered. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to,” she pushed away from the wall. “Sometimes people just help others; not in the hopes of a reward or for power, but just because they _can_. I was in a position to do so with you, so I did.”

Beckett pursed his lips and mentally chewed on that notion for a moment. To help someone just because one can? It sounded like something from a fairy tale; good in idea but not practical to execute in reality. And yet, there she was, living proof that people like that actually existed. The concept was a foreign one.

A cold touch on his wrist brought him to attention. “It’s been a long day. Let’s get a stimpak in that shoulder and brace your knee. We can talk about this more once we get somewhere safe, if you’d like.”

He hummed in agreement and she disappeared, only to reappear a few moments later with a box full of medical supplies tucked against her hip. She deposited the items on the desk and began taking out what she needed one by one.

“I can do this,” he spoke, barely above a whisper. “You should rest.”

A quick nod. “Probably for the best. Can’t really do much with this bum arm at the moment. I’d ask Mort to assist you, but he’s out walking the perimeter.”

“He’d probably break my other knee if you left me and him in a room alone,” he joked.

“Nah, Mort is as gentle and mild mannered as a Brahmin calf.”

“Are we talking about the same ghoul?”

She threw him a pointed look. “You just need to get to know him better.”

Beckett wasn’t sure about the implication behind that. Getting to know Mort better meant staying around long enough to get to know him at all. He idly wondered how long she expected him to tag along.

Andy left with a wave and tight smile. The trailer felt much bigger without her in it and he watched her descend the staircase outside.

With a sigh, he went about setting his knee. The floor was cold, he could feel it through his jeans, and he shifted with the injured leg outstretched. Two panels of wood, crude but effective, were placed on either side and he wrapped it tightly with medical tape. The shoulder came next. He cleaned it with an alcohol wipe and applied a stimpak, securing a clean piece of gauze over it.

He wondered if a stimpak would be useful with his knee, but he was wary of the bone mending wrong if it wasn’t set correctly. Maybe there was a doctor of sorts near Andy’s house that would be more adept at this sort of thing.

Shakily, he rose, testing the structural integrity of the brace. When he was assured that it was strong enough to walk on, he grab all of his belongings and shuffled out of the trailer.

Below, beneath all the shanty buildings and boardwalks, Andy and Mort were waiting. At the sound of his approach, Andy turned around and grinned, shading her eyes from the relentless sun. It was hard to resist smiling back despite the circumstances. Mort just grunted and gave a curt nod, unsurprisingly.

After a couple of supply checks, they turned and left the camp—hopefully headed somewhere better.


	3. An Existential Beer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A dialogue heavy chapter.

By the time they reached their destination, the sun had settled behind the jagged horizon, painting the sky in smattering of pinks and oranges. Her home was a two-story prefab, likely one still standing from before the war. 

Despite the chipping paint and some crumbling posts along the wraparound porch, it was relatively put together. Nicer than any place he’d ever stayed in.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Andy said in a sing-song voice. “I don’t have an extra bed but you’re welcome to crash on the couch in the meantime.”

Florescent lighting flickered to life and drowned the front room in a warm glow. The first thing Beckett noticed was the sheer size of the interior. It had to be the largest functional house he’d ever seen. The wallpaper was intact and a startling shade of deep blue. 

String lights decorated the embossed paneling close to the ceiling, occasionally swooping down to highlight various taxidermy animal heads and paintings.

The floorboards were made of mahogany and he inspected it beneath his boots, which looked incredibly tarnished in comparison. The wood was glossy and smooth, brand new. He swore he could see his reflection in the lacquer.

To his left was an updated kitchen affixed with what looked like an operational range stove and refurbished fridge. Through the small glass window in the fridge, he could see it was stocked to the nines with food and drink.

If this was how the first floor looked, he could only imagine how immaculate the second story was.

It took every ounce of strength in him to not freak the fuck out.

What was her deal? Did she come from a rich family? Most of the furniture looked pre-war yet seemingly untouched by the last twenty-five years. No stains and not a busted seam in sight.

“There’s a half bath down here past the kitchen and a full bathroom upstairs to the left. The water is slightly irradiated but the boiler works, so it gets nice and hot. Kind of makes it worth it.” Andy was prattling off the list of amenities like it was nothing. “Plenty of food and booze in the fridge, so help yourself. Am I missing anything, Mort?”

Beckett had completely forgotten the ghoul was still here. He’d apparently found an arm chair in the corner and was leaning into it, the brim of his hat tipped just slightly so it covered his eyes.

“The Wayward,” Mort mumbled.

“Oh, yes!” Andy waved. She was slowly stripping off one piece of clothing at a time, starting at her mud crusted boots. “There’s a bar across the river. If you need any supplies or just feel like being social, head on in and talk to Duchess. She’s good people.”

Next came the bandoliers. The holsters, revolvers still in them. Her duster. Stetson hat. All items were carefully handled and hung delicately on a rack near the foyer with her uninjured arm.

The combat armor she adorned was more visible now and he couldn’t help but study it. Just like everything else in her home, it was smooth and relatively untarnished. 

Even from this distance, he could see it was made of an army green polymer. Probably high grade and incredibly expensive.

Andy was fumbling with something behind her back, a look of intense concentration piercing through the layers of dust and blood on her face. Unbuckling armor with one arm in a sling was proving difficult. 

Beckett idly wondered if he should help but just as he went to move in her direction, Mort was on his feet and at her side.

Beckett watched as Mort’s fingers worked methodically, surprisingly gentle in their ministrations. There was no yanking or cursing and quickly enough, her combat cuirass was removed and placed near the door.

A sigh of gratitude left Andy’s parted lips and Beckett couldn’t help but notice the way Mort’s fingers lingered on the exposed flesh of her nape.

She turned her wide, forest green eyes to the ghoul. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d probably be stuck in that armor for the rest of your life,” Mort chuckled, moving a piece of hair out of her eyes. “I’m going to check in with Duchess and Sol.”

“Thanks for your help today.” Her fingers trailed up his arm and rested on his bicep. “Need anything before you go?”

“Much appreciated, but I’m beat.” Mort pulled away. “Goodnight, Andrea.”

“Goodnight, Mordecai.” 

Beckett followed the ghoul’s form as he retrieved his own pack from the armchair in the corner and left, closing the door gently behind him. 

A beer bottle suddenly blocked his line of vision. A smiling Andy was standing only a few inches away, her free hand proffering the bottle.

“You’ve been frozen in place since you arrived. Have a beer, relax.” Andy gestured to his bag, still slung over his shoulder. “I’m in desperate need of a wash. But once I’m done, we can sit and talk more about our next plan of action.”

Our? We?

Beckett took the bottle and nodded mutely. In a few bounds, Andy was up the steps and he didn’t relax until he heard the water turn on. His bag was placed atop a throw rug in the middle of the living room.

He went to take a seat on the couch but paused, taking a second to observe the upholstery. He looked down at his muddy, dirt-laden clothing. Then back to the couch. There was no way in hell he was going to sit on that fancy material in his current condition.

With a sigh, Beckett set the beer bottle on an adjacent coffee table and removed his leather jacket, quickly depositing it on top of his bag.

Next came the boots, which he’d hastily pried from his feet and threw across the room. They landed next to the door, clumps of god knows what loosening on impact and scattering across the wood. Hopefully she wouldn’t notice.

Once he was satisfied, he plopped onto the floor in front of the couch and leaned his back against it, letting his eyes close. The stimpak worked wonders on his shoulder and the brace alleviated the discomfort in his knee. 

The more he walked, the more he started to think that it was potentially sprained as opposed to broken.

He took a sip of the beer. It was cold and bubbly as it slipped past his tongue and down his throat, nestling warmly in his belly.

The house was quiet, save for the sound of running water through creaking pipes. Every now and then he could hear something bang or drop from the floor above, and wondered what exactly what Andy was getting up to.

It’d been quite some time since he had enjoyed a hot shower. Foundation had been the last time and since then he'd made due of cold, irradiated tubs and streams.

He shifted and was suddenly very aware of the sweat clinging to his frame. It soaked his shirt and he lifted the hem, fanning it for momentary relief. As he moved, he noted the layer of dust, grime, and blood that coated his skin. 

Most of that blood, he acknowledged, was not his own.

Not quite sure how long Andy would take and if he’d have a chance to rinse off himself, he set aside his beer once more and shuffled toward the kitchen sink.

The water was chilly, but not biting, and he splashed his face, working some onto the rest of his exposed arms.

To his surprise, she had some pre-war hand towels hanging from the stove. They were so clean and nice that he second-guessed drying himself with it. They were probably… decorative? There was no way she’d ever used them, given their pristine condition.

The fact that she had something in her home that existed beyond the scope of functionality was just another baffling piece to this puzzle. People had little use of things that they _couldn’t use_ in the wasteland. These were designed to just look pretty. Even had a little monogram on the bottom corner, though he couldn’t make it out.

Maybe he could just shake off like a dog.

That seemed fitting.

A sigh heaved through him as he went to the front porch and tried to dry himself by wiping at his arms in swift motions. It worked. Kind of. He decided to wait outside for a bit before returning indoors, if only in the hopes of the wind finishing the job.

He leaned against a post, staring idly up at the intricate spandrels and bearded trims that line the roof. 

At least on the outside, the house fit the post-apocalyptic scenery a bit better. Peeling paint and chipped, fractured wood. Burn marks here and a little dirt there.

For some reason, this eased a bit of his tension. It was familiar. Less expectation out here for him to adhere to. Beckett wasn’t clean. He wasn’t neat-looking.

He was rough and scarred and pretty things didn’t suit him, because he didn’t suit pretty things.

“Beckett?”

This time, her arrival didn’t make him jump. He threw an idle glance over his shoulder in greeting. In one hand she had his partially-empty beer and in the other was a fresh one, presumably for herself. 

She handed him his bottle with her uninjured arm and he took it with a nod.

“What are you doing out here?” She asked, mimicking him by leaning against an adjacent post, her arm wrapped in a fresh sling.

Beckett looked at her then. Her hair was wet and loose, wavy, leaving spots along the fabric of the baggy t-shirt she’d changed into. Without the grime and rusty flakes of blood on her face, she looked a little less intimidating. He noticed that the pip-boy was gone.

“Just enjoying the night air.” A sip of his beer. “Nice home you have here. Less shackled and dilapidated than the others around these parts.”

“Thanks. Took a while to get the interior just the way I wanted. The outside could use some work but I don’t see the point.”

“Don’t see the point?”

“Yeah. I mean, I maintain the crops, keep the generators in shape, and plug holes in the roof when it gets drafty. Everything else is cosmetic.” She idly picked at some peeling paint. “A grandiose exterior might make me a target, anyways.”

They were quiet for a moment, looking out over the plot of land she’d claimed as her own. 

He’d just now noticed the rows of crops she’d spoken of. Corn stalks, mutfruit bushes, gourds, blackberries, and various other plants he didn’t recognize. There was a water pump towards the front, an errant bucket still underneath the nozzle.

It was all so domestic. It reminded him of the scattered settler farms he’d seen when he and Frankie first arrived in Appalachia. Though, Andy had kept this place immaculate for someone who lived alone. He’d seen larger families struggle with the upkeep of houses half this size.

“As a former raider, I’d have to agree that a nice looking house is prime for picking. Though,” he paused, mulling over his words, “that hadn’t stopped us from ransacking nearly every building we came across.”

“So, I should make the outside match the inside? Damned if I do and damned if I don’t and all that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know how they maintained things in a vault, but out here people are desperate and will scavenge, pillage, and loot anything. Well kept or not, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Ah,” she tilted her chin. “You saw the pip-boy.”

“The giant blocky wrist computer? Nah, barely noticeable. I just have a keen eye.”

“Smart ass.”

That got a smile out of him. “Explains some things, though.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Your willingness to help random people-- namely, running head first into a raider camp for a complete stranger without much skepticism or caution.”

“I grew up in a vault but that doesn’t mean I’m naïve... well, at least not anymore. The wasteland kind of kicks your ass into gear.” She rolled her eyes. “Besides, I’d like to think myself a good judge of character.”

“So, do you often make it a habit to collect wandering wasteland strays?” Another sip of his beer as he looked away.

"More like a hobby, I'd say."

“Never worry about getting bitten?”

“Nah,” she waved dismissively. “I have stimpaks for that.”

“Not funny.”

“Come on, it was a little funny.”

A sharp glance in her direction quickly smothered any humor between them.

“You have no idea who I am or what I can do.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “I could rob you blind of all those shiny little knick-knacks and be gone by morning.”

Andy observed him quietly. Her face was rid of the playful grin from only moments before, looking relatively impassive. Not angry or irritated or defensive. Just blank. There was a slight lilt to her head, a similar gesture from the trailer in Sludge Works, and she locked her gaze with his.

It was a few beats before she withdrew her attention with a roll of her shoulders, taking a swig from her bottle.

“If that was the course you felt you needed to take, then so be it. Most of those knick-knacks can be replaced.” She said simply. “But in my defense, _you_ agreed to follow _me_ here. It’s just as likely that I’m a cannibal who decided to lure you in with the sole purpose of eating you.”

“You’re not a cannibal.”

“How do you know?”

“Not shaky enough. Eating a lot of human flesh makes people all wobbly and paranoid.”

“Well, maybe I’m a part-time cannibal. I cook up big hulking raiders every other month as a treat.”

Beckett frowned at the use of ‘big’ and ‘hulking.’ 

“You’re using humor to deflect a very serious point.”

“You know, when you lecture me like this, you sound an awful lot like Mort. Maybe you should bunk with him.”

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll pass on that.”

Beckett just couldn't wrap his head around it. He'd all but stewed on her reasoning the entire way back to her homestead. Sure, perhaps he was being cynical. And perhaps he was being a little cruel with the way he was treating this entire situation. It was just as likely that he was projecting his own guilt on to her.

But in all his miserable years, no one had ever helped him. No one found him worthy of help. It was always one hand extended in offering and the other hidden away, clutching a blade. A gun. A tightly coiled fist. Everything was quid pro quo.

Not with her. Not yet, at least.

"Sorry. I'm grateful for what you've done for me. I guess I'm just stuck on the 'why' of it."

"I know. You've made that very clear."

"Yeah but-but do you? Know, I mean. Not to sound like a broken record but you... you, uh--" he sputtered and then said, dumbly, "you have decorative towels."

"Decorative...?" Andy blinked a few times before chuckling to herself. "Oh. I get it, Beckett."

He straightened a bit at the way she said his name. She shifted a single foot to press against the column and scratched the back of her neck.

"The towels aren't really meant for drying anything. Pretty impractical. Right?"

Beckett shrugged helplessly.

"It's value isn't in whether or not it can be used. I know-" she raised her hands "-it sounds stupid. It's just a towel. But out here the general consensus is that if something isn't helpful, if it doesn't benefit you, then it's pointless. We extend that mentality to others, and even ourselves."

He was confused, but Andy gave him no further explanation. Just stared out at the crops, stone-faced and silent as if she'd just dropped the most important lesson of the post-war era. So he rubbed his hands together and wracked his brain.

Beckett wasn't the smartest man, but he liked to think of himself as someone with a pretty decent head on his shoulders. Maybe not in regards to philosophical conversations, though. Especially ones with poorly executed towel metaphors.

"Are you... wait, let me get this straight. You're saying I'm the towel, right?"

"No," she snorted. "You are not the towel."

"I'm lost then."

"You are not an object, a-a... _thing_. You're a person, a person who deserves to be shown kindness-- kindness regardless of whether or not it can be repaid." She met his eyes, made sure he could see the seriousness in her face. "What I'm trying to say is: usefulness is not worthiness. What we're able to do or not do, give or not give, it doesn't negate our inherent value."

Beckett was still lost. Kind of. It felt like the point she'd been trying to make was just above his head and out of reach. Maybe it'd hit him later, when he had more time to mull over it. If anyone else had tried to broach him with a topic like this, especially in the way she phrased it, he'd be certain they were patronizing him. But he didn't get that from her.

"It's not... it's not that it _just_ looks nice, you know? It's that you..." she trailed off and shook her head. "Never mind. I'm sure the last thing you want is to hear me rant about this shit."

"It's fine," he supplied meagerly. "I don't mind."

Andy raked her fingers through her hair and studied the moon, letting her eyes slip closed for just a moment. He observed her from the corner of his eyes, watched as she breathed deeply, wind ruffling the fabric of her baggy t-shirt. Then, in one gulp, she knocked back the rest of her beer and set the bottle near her feet.

"Finish your beer and have a wash, the shower is all yours."

The door to the porch creaked behind her as she slipped back inside, not even sparing him a second glance. He supposed there was no point, there was nothing left to say. He was already surprised at the amount of which she was willing to talk to him. He liked talking, enjoyed listening even more so.

He thought of the blueprints in his bag-- an outline of a dream he held onto for many years. A bar, stocked to the nines with the best pre-war booze, and stools for those wanting to sit and gab and drink their caps away. Maybe him and Frankie could open up a place together; wile away the days lending an ear to wandering merchants and settlers and lonely vagrants.

It'd be a simple life, much simpler than this.

It was another hour before he followed suit and went inside. He crept up the stairs and, after a lot of fumbling in the dark, found the shower. The hot water had been just as tantalizing as he'd imagined and it was almost impossible to pull himself away. 

But once the water ran clear and his body was sufficiently scrubbed, he dressed himself and went back down to the living room.

On the couch was a pile of blankets and an insanely fluffy pillow. He tried not to think about the care with which they'd been folded or the immaculate condition of the material. Too nice, too clean, too much. 

He tossed the pillow into a chair in the corner, draping the blankets along the back of the couch, and settled on using his jacket to prop up his head.

As he settled into the cushions, the decorative towels dangling from the stove in the kitchen were in plain view. 

Something with no use but was still valuable, a thing that didn't give back but was still cherished. Still important. Her helping him, but not asking for anything in return. He looked back at the unsullied blankets and the pillow in the corner, frowning.

With a grunt, he rolled over and faced away from it all.

He was rough and scarred and pretty things didn’t suit him, because he didn’t suit pretty things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, maybe the towel metaphor was stupid, but I took the idea and ran with it. It felt apt to drive home the idea that everyone inherently has value-- deserves kindness, respect, and safety. One's value isn't contingent upon the labor one provides.


	4. The Wayward

Beckett awoke to a warm ray of sunlight and the lingering smell of spices. He moved to sit up, all aching muscles and creaking joints, noting that the house was empty. Again. Third time in a row that Andy had made breakfast and dipped without waking him up, like he’d so _kindly_ asked her to do.

He yawned until his ears popped and he threw his legs over the side of the couch, pushing away the blankets he didn’t like using—blankets a certain vault dweller kept pitching over him while he slept. As he stood, he peered out of the living room window.

It was early in the afternoon, by the looks of it. Another day wasted.

A sigh escaped his nose and he swiveled around, shambling towards the kitchen. Dirtied pots and pans crowded the sink, stacked to the point where all it would take was a light breeze and they’d tumble over. He made a mental note to wash them later.

Something caught his eye. It was a message scribbled on a notepad on the counter. Reluctantly, he picked it up.

_Breakfast is in the oven for you. You better eat it._

Beneath that was a barely legible doodle of a very angry stick person and a large knife, a messy scrawl of storm clouds above their head. The message had been included in this, rounded out into a sloppy speech bubble like a comic book.

Beckett snorted and set the notepad aside.

He pried open the oven and pulled out a plate of food, still warm. Brahmin cutlets and some type of yellow bread in a mystery sauce. Andy’s meals thus far hadn’t let him down yet, so he grabbed some utensils and plopped down at the table.

It had been an arduous feat for Andy to convince him to stay here. She’d insisted his injured knee needed a few more days of rest before he set out, and Beckett vehemently disagreed. But Andy was fantastic at rebuffing his every attempt to reason, leaving him little else to say aside from ‘ _I can’t stay here_ ’ over and over again.

So after a heated back and forth, Beckett relented.

He eyed the plate between his hands.

He had an inkling suspicion she was bribing him with food, like one would a half-starved feral dog. But as he took a bite of the cutlet and let the mystery sauce coat his tongue, he wondered if that was so bad. He’d never had a home cooked meal before.

It wasn’t long before lingering guilt chased that small pleasure from his mind. That’d been a recurring thing for him during their scant few days of cohabitation. Sometimes he’d feel so horrible at her niceties and generosity that he’d overcompensate for it.

He found his penance in helping with things around the house.

He fixed the leaking faucet, tightened the bolts on the water heater, and even fumbled around in the shed in search of paint to repair the siding. He’d even plucked her clothes from the line, folded them nicely, and harvested veggies to replace the ones she’d used to cook with.

But today he found himself wandering towards The Wayward. Andy had mentioned is was a decent place to supply up, which he was in desperate need of doing. He had four caps to his name, tucked into his right shoe, but there were some odds and ends he’d brought along for trade.

As he crossed the bridge over the river, he took in the sight of a sentry bot painted white with large, oblong splotches of black. It mooed and whirred as it perused The Wayward’s brahmin pin, taking a moment to dispose of a molerat that had gotten to close. Not a bad way to protect livestock.

He shouldered his pack and ambled up the stairs, pushing the door open. It was dark, dingy, and the air tasted like mildew. But the first thing he saw when his eyes adjusted was an assaultron poised behind the front desk.

Beckett yelped and jumped back, fumbling for the pistol Andy had given him back at Rollins.

“Hello,” its smooth, almost sultry robotic voice filled the space between them. “You’re a new face.”

He’d just gotten the pistol free from his waistband when he froze. Startled eyes flew to the robot’s face. “You can talk?”

The assaultron made a noise that sounded something close to annoyance. Claw like hands spun briefly and it rotated its upper body, as if it were getting a closer look at him. The two optical receptors, right above a laser centered in its face, seemed to flicker.

“I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

“Holy shit.” Still, he did not put the gun away. He swallowed hard. “You are, ah… this is…”

“Yes, yes. You’re overcome with awe and admiration, practically elated at the very sight of me.” Then, almost dryly, it added, “I have that effect on men.”

This got a chuckle out of him despite himself. He peered behind the bot and noticed crates, lockers, and other boxes that could potentially hold supplies.

“I’m Polly.”

“Oh… uh, sorry. I’m Beckett. Andy told me--”

The claws rotated again. “Andy sent you?”

He was almost terrified to answer. “Yes? Kind of. She said I could come here if I needed anything.”

Slowly, Polly bent down and retrieved a canvas bag. With much more grace than he anticipated, the bot placed the bag onto the counter and pushed it towards him. He eyed it cautiously but didn’t take it.

“She mentioned a friend would be stopping by, paid Duchess to put this together.”

Of course she did.

Beckett wanted to refuse this and figure out his own way, but Polly nudged it again with impatience. He put the gun away and slowly took the bag, pulling on one of the fraying handles. As soon as he got a peek inside he felt that guilt inside him swell.

Stimpaks. Medical gauze. A few boxes of various ammo. And all the way at the bottom was a miniature sewing kit. Mindlessly, he ran a hand along the hole in the arm of his leather jacket. He hadn’t been able to find anything in her house to patch it with, but it appeared she’d found a solution for that.

“Do I even wanna know how much she spent?” He asked.

“You can ask Duchess,” Polly gestured down the hall. “I was just told to watch the stuff.”

Beckett looked at where Polly was pointing. At the end of the hall was an open room with high, vaulted ceilings. String lights hung along the walls, much like Andy’s house, and various metal signage filled empty spaces. It was a surprise he hadn’t noticed it initially, too distracted by the talking assaultron.

He gave Polly a nod and moved towards the room. Behind a wooden bar top was a woman, head bowed low as she fiddled with something. But at the sound of his footsteps she looked up and cracked a wide, conspiratorial grin.

“Well, well, well… if it isn’t Peaches’ new boy toy,” she practically crooned.

Beckett paused at that. “Peaches?”

_Boy toy?_

“Andy,” the woman straightened. “’Cause, you know, she’s sweet as a peach.”

He had no idea what a peach was, so he simply nodded. The bag of supplies was quickly deposited onto the bar. The woman eyed the bag a fraction before settling her attention back on him.

“If you’re going to ask about the supplies, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Andy swore me to secrecy and I don’t take that lightly.” She grinned again. “Said you’d get all in a tizzy about her throwing caps around for you and she ‘didn’t have time to argue.’”

Beckett bit the inside of his cheek. “Typical.”

“And how,” the woman drawled.

The bar stool creaked as he sat down, a little at a loss, but if there was one thing he was comfortable with, it was people. So he straightened the collar of his jacket and let a smile pull his features into something more approachable.

“I’m Duchess. I think Peaches mentioned your name was Beckett?”

“Yep,” he said politely. “Nice to meet you.”

Duchess placed a drink in front of him. The glass was foggy and the liquid inside was a dark amber. He picked it up to give an inquisitive sniff and immediately regretted it.

The hairs inside his nose were practically singed away and he made a noise, somewhere in between a cough and a gag. A shudder ran down his back and goosebumps prickled his skin. Oh, that was going to linger in his sinuses for _days_.

Instead of being offended, Duchess tossed her head back and laughed. “I love doing that to newbies! Never gets old.”

“What is this?” Beckett managed to ask, voice tight.

“My own special brand,” she winked. “Peaches had the same reaction, though I think she got a little greener around the gills than you did. Must’ve had your fair share of hooch.”

He chuckled at that and pushed the drink away. “Enough to last me a life time.”

“Suit yourself,” she grabbed the glass and knocked it back in one go. Didn’t even flinch.

Beckett cringed. That couldn’t be healthy, right? Duchess set the glass somewhere behind the counter and righted herself, adjusting her shirt, before leaning forward on her elbows. One hand, with meticulously kept fingernails, propped up her chin as she gazed at him. Scrutinizing.

She was older. Pretty, with honey-red hair and piercing brown eyes that seemed to rake over him with thinly veiled curiosity. There was a sharpness to her, just barely visible around the edges; silent in its warning, a reminder to watch his words and keep his wits about him.

“A little different than the usual types Peaches brings around these parts,” she said easily. “Though she’s never bunked with one. Or bought them gifts. What makes you special, I wonder?”

He was caught off guard by that and leaned back, scrubbing a hand along his face with a grunt.

“If I knew, I’d tell you.”

She hummed with a smirk and gave him a titillating once-over. “I guess you have a certain appeal.”

“…a-appeal?”

“Yeah,” she replied like it was obvious. “Reformed bad boy raider in a leather jacket. Guns for days, and I’m not talking about the dinky little pistol. Bet you’re a real ladies man.”

“Uh… what? Heh, n-no. No. I wouldn’t say that,” he cleared his throat, face warming exponentially.

“Leave him alone,” a gruff voice at his back chided. “You’re going to scare him off and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“We’re just having a little fun, Mort.” Another wink.

“Duchess, he’s red from the ears down and kind of sweaty. Give it a rest.”

Mort took a seat next to Beckett and tossed a fraying rucksack on the floor. There was a bit of dried blood on his duster and he tipped his hat in greeting. Flecks of dirt and grime clung to his black locks and he rubbed at the place where his nose should be with a sniff.

He held up two wrinkled fingers and Duchess obliged, setting two label-less bottles of _something_ in front of them. Beckett silently prayed this wasn’t another one of Duchess’ special concoctions.

“A hunky piece of man like this isn’t accustomed to a little flirting?” She questioned.

“He’s…” Mort threw Beckett a long sideways glance, “easily flustered.”

“Thanks, Mort. I guess,” he muttered and took an apprehensive sip from the bottle. Sweet, thankful lord up above-- it was just a beer. A plain, stale-tasting lager.

“No problem kid,” he clinked his bottle against Beckett’s. “Put them both on my tab, Duchess.”

“Peaches pre-paid for his first drink,” Duchess called over her shoulder, dropping a glass into the sink.

Beckett groaned and glowered at his beer, as if it was the root cause of every single bad thing to happen to him. Discreetly, he patted his face. Ugh. He _was_ a little sweaty.

“Mort mentioned they adopted you from a labor camp down south,” Duchess remarked, pulling him out of his thoughts. “How long were you a raider?”

“Way too long, but I left that life behind me.”

“Which affiliation?”

He paused, returning her gaze with trepidation. “Most recently? Blood Eagles.”

“Hooo,” she let out a low whistle. “Brutal bunch of sons o’ bitches. Heard once you’re in, you’re in. Only way out is when you kick the bucket.”

“Well, Duchess, he’s obviously very much alive.” Mort deadpanned.

“Yeah, for now.” Duchess mused.

It was delivered like a joke. There was amusement in her face as she picked up a glass, polishing it with a dingy looking rag. It didn’t feel like a joke to him, though. The ghoul next to him didn’t seem to find it funny either.

Mort was quick to change the subject. “I see you found your gift basket.”

“What?” The ghoul pointed to the canvas bag. “Oh, that.”

Andy had this planned the moment she mentioned The Wayward. Beckett was sure of it. Somehow, that woman was ten steps ahead of him at all times.

“She was being nice,” Mort groused. “Most people would be appreciative.”

“I do appreciate it,” he replied quickly. “I just…”

He thought of Frankie. He thought of them when they were little; hiding in abandoned buildings and scrounging for food, stealing it off of unsuspecting travelers. No matter how hungry Beckett got, no matter how badly his stomach cramped, he always gave Frankie the bigger portions. 

Sometimes he’d forgo eating at all if there wasn’t enough to share.

It was the only time in his wretched, miserable life that he’d been selfless. Taking care of his brother mattered more than his own discomfort, his own well-being.

And when Andy did things like this for him, it drudged up feelings he couldn’t quite understand. She reversed the role he’d resigned himself to since his dad died.

Suddenly _he_ was Frankie-- five years old, covered in dirt and trembling against the cold, being given the bigger portion.

“I’m not used to gifts,” he finally said. “Helping me out at Rollins and Sludge Works was enough. I didn’t expect any of this.”

“Andy is an all or nothing type of woman. I’ve seen her give the last of our supplies to someone in need with no forethought to her own.” Mort sipped his beer. “People like her are rare.”

That was an understatement. Surviving in the world the Great War left behind was a ruthless, almost futile endeavor. There was so little to go around that helping strangers was a risk most weren’t willing to take.

There was a scraping sound, a stool being dragged along the floor. A body filled the spot on his other side. The smell of gunpowder and earth pervaded his nose and he fought the urge to sneeze, only slightly grateful Duchess’ brew hadn’t ruined his sense of smell entirely.

A toothy grin peered out from under a familiar Stetson hat. It was Andy, all wild blonde hair and covered head to toe in dirt.

A handful of caps was unceremoniously slapped against the bar top. “Surprised to see you here, greaser boy. How’s the knee?”

“Better. I can actually walk on it now. Oh, and," he frowned, "thanks for waking me up when you left, by the way.”

“You looked so precious sleeping, I couldn’t bear to disturb you.”

Mort leaned back to look at Andy. “Where have you been?”

“Felt a little restless so I went and scoped out one of those Brotherhood blockades. An initiate barely old enough to hold a gun ended up sending me on a fool’s errand to some mutant hive,” she waved dismissively. “Easy peasy.”

She and Beckett had vastly different definitions on what constituted as easy.

“Came back and saw no one was home and thought maybe y’all were here.” She looped an arm behind Beckett and tugged on Mort’s sleeve. “Got a new job. Ward sent a message to my terminal and said help’s needed at Foundation. He sounded pretty serious.”

Mort set his beer down and turned fully, leaving Beckett wedged in the center of them.

“Ward is always serious.”

“No I mean… _serious_ , serious. Wants us there pronto.”

A rumbling sound left the ghoul’s throat. “I’ll get my rifle.”

He stood and grabbed his rucksack from the floor and pulled it over his shoulder, slinking out of the bar. Duchess put a short glass filled with clear liquid in front of Andy. She lifted it and pulled the contents into her mouth with a gratified nod.

The canvas bag brimming with all her gifts sat between the two. Beckett wished Mort was still there if not only for the distraction he’d provide Andy. But just as Beckett predicted, Andy’s eyes honed in on the bag and lit up.

“Did you see the sewing kit?”

Beckett swallowed. “I did. Those are hard to find.”

“Duchess can find anything. There’s also some faux leather in there. It’s not much, but it should be enough to patch up that hole.” She stuck her finger into said hole and wiggled it. “Is it bigger?”

“I don’t think so,” he looked down. He could feel the warmth of her fingertip along his bicep. “What’s this job you’ve got?”

“I’m not sure, really. Ward was a bit vague on the details. Why?” The finger disappeared. “Interested?”

“Yeah, actually.” Beckett gave her a fragile smile. “If you’re okay with me tagging along.”

When Beckett first escaped the Blood Eagles, he went straight to Foundation.

He’d showed up half dead, dehydrated, and on the tail end of withdrawing from chems. He knew someone there, aside from Frankie-- a contact that he discreetly leeched information from, mainly pertaining to his brother, and both were AWOL upon his arrival.

Ward had been the one who found him, retching and looking like death warmed over. He’d snatched him up by the scruff and shook him once, twice, before dragging Beckett into a trailer turned office. Man had a thing against raiders.

Ward was surly and dry-witted. Rightfully mistrustful of Beckett, with his Blood Eagles jacket and cobbled leather armor reeking of blood and drug fumes. He’d practically chewed out the guards for letting such an obvious miscreant slink past their defenses.

And boy, had it been hell trying to pull his shit together enough to string along a coherent description of his brother, let alone discuss the finer details of their situation. But Ward had been understanding once he realized Beckett posed no threat to his people.

All he could do was promise to get word to Beckett if Frankie turned up. It felt like a dead end, seeing there was no definitive way of contacting him outside of the settlement.

Beckett left not long after that, not wanting to overstay his welcome, fearing the worst. And when he was caught shortly after, vomiting all over himself in that cell inside Rollins, that fear became a tangible reality.

Returning to Foundation might be futile. There might not be anything there for him to grab onto, to lead him in the right direction or confirm suspicions, but it was worth a try.

“I’d be delighted to have you with us.” Andy stood from the stool and hooked her arm through his. “But first, we have to get you into some new gear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deleted the previous chapter because I've decided to go in another direction. Sorry y'all.


End file.
